The Mortal And The Wicked-- ONC 2023

Prologue; Inklings of magic

It is perhaps in the smallest of towns where the old sort of magic tends to linger. In the places where very few eyes might see them. In places where folklore is breathed from every mouth of the living, and where all expectations of the natural come to die.

The town of Hawthorn Vale was no exception.

It was entirely unremarkable in nature; the houses plain and worn by weather, nestled into the English countryside and so thoroughly isolated from any other civilization that travelers were surprised when they came upon it-- wondering how anyone might live so far removed from general society.

Yet it was not the town and its dreary inhabitants that made the Vale outstanding beneath its rugged exterior, but rather the very magic that flowed through the hills. Magic that had long been forgotten under the streets of the larger cities, and yet here it still moved. Still breathed.

It was something perhaps only the children believed in, their minds filled with stories of fairies, ghosts, and spirits that dwelled in the woods that lay beyond the last path of the Vale. And nearly all of them believed that everything in the town held some magic within it.

It was why, at at the age of nine, Lucien Caramonte knew her grandmother was a witch.

There was, perhaps, no factual evidence for this. Yet Lucy could think of no other explanation for the strange things her grandmother did; speaking almost entirely in fables and riddles, telling Lucy to never give away her full name, and that secrets were worth more than she could ever imagine.

Yet the strangest of her behaviors occurred only when the carnival came to town; for in the nights when the veil between worlds thinned and the magic in the air grew.

Tents in bright and merry colors appeared without warning-- seemingly overnight in the space where the town ended and the forest began. And when at last the sun would set Lucy would watch as the withered old woman locked every door and window, pulling the drapes tightly shut around them, her face pinched in a look of concern.

She would distract her then for the rest of the night with riddles and puzzles. And though for a time Lucy was content with this, with each time that the carnival appeared her curiosity grew.

"Why can't we go see it?" Lucy had asked one evening whilst the merry tunes and laughter floated in from beyond the shuttered windows. "So many others in town get to go."

At this, her grandmother had gone silent, her dulled eyes fixated upon the window as though she could see what lay beyond them. Yet finally she answered, though her words were not what Lucy had hoped for.

"There are some things that still hold to them their old magic in this world, child. And though it may seem bright it is but a mask that hides the darkness beneath. It is no place where the living ought to wander."

Lucy dared not ask anything further after that. But in the years to follow that music would continue to haunt her, calling her ever closer to the brilliantly colored tents and the magic that lay within them...

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It was at the age of nine that Lucy had first begun to steal.

With hands delicately small, an innocent demeanor and brilliant, charming smile she found that it came with a natural cadence. For it seemed as though she were aided by some manner of magic herself-- the shadows cloaking themselves around her, the soles of her shoes softening themselves so that her footsteps might not be heard.

To be sure, it wasn't as though she needed to steal; she had everything her heart could have desired. Fine dresses, the most beautiful of dolls and other handcrafted toys. Everything, that is, except for a sense of adventure.